


Move Move Move

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Moving In Together, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8760850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Athos Aramis and Porthos are moving house. Athos and Aramis are thirsty for Porthos's sweaty self.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



“Move move move!” Porthos says, cheerfully heaving a heavy box of books through the chaos of the hall toward Athos’s office.

  


Athos and Aramis pull their legs out of the way where they’re sat slumped against the wall. Their new house is so big, and the accumulation of stuff from the three of them is exhausting. Not to mention the things they bought new while they had the moving van. Furniture, a TV, loads of kitchen things Athos insists are a hundred percent necessary, and pretty much every stuffed thing Ikea had, from pillows to cushions to toys, thanks to Porthos and his excitement and Athos agreeing to bankroll the trip. The rest of the costs of the move they’ve split three ways, but they let Athos cover Ikea. especially once Porthos decided they needed a swing seat and three sofas. All of which are already in the house, thankfully. Porthos steams happily back past them, sweat standing out on his neck and arms.

  


“I really like that t-shirt,” Aramis says to Athos, taking in the old, thin, rucked up cloth stretching over Porthos’s muscular shoulders and arms, his stomach popping out the bottom.

  


“And those shorts,” Athos agrees.

  


Aramis transfers his gaze to the shorts, and has to agree. They’re short shorts, and Porthos’s thighs are fully on display, and sweaty too. They’re old, a little tight across the arse, cutting into the muscle over his hip. Aramis hums as Porthos bends to gather a few stray item from the front lawn. He vanishes to the van, but he’s back a minute later, two boxes in his arms.

  


“Dunno what these ones are, they’re not labelled,” Porthos says. “I’ll dump ‘em in Aramis’s yoga room.”

  


“Who says I’m the one who forgot to label?” Aramis grumbles.

  


Porthos stops to look down at him, and Aramis beams up. Even Porthos’s elbows are sweating. Aramis wants to lick him. Porthos smiles, then moves on. Athos gets to his feet and wanders back out, too, returning with an ikea bag full of plushies. He looks around the hall, sets the bag on the chest of drawers currently blocking the living-room door, and contemplates his helpfulness. Porthos buzzes out and in again a few times before Athos decides that, yes, that is quite enough for the moment. He sits back next Aramis on the floor and they watch Porthos. Finally Porthos brings an armful of random crap that got chucked in loose, dumps it in a half empty box, and straightens up.

  


“We have… an hour to get the van back. Good timing,” Porthos says, checking his watch and grinning. “Any of you coming with?”

  


“You have to shower first, or at least put something a bit more decent on,” Athos says.

  


“You’re practically naked,” Aramis agrees, approval ringing in his voice.

  


“Mm,” Athos says.

  


“Stop leching on me!” Porthos says, then cocks a hip and grins, scratching at his belly. “The van place is quite close. Maybe we’ve got time for _showering_.”

  


“I’ll come with you,” Athos says, getting to his feet.

  


Aramis supposes that means he’d better get a move on with setting things at least a little to rights. He starts with the living-room, figuring the most important thing is a nice comfy space to watch TV. He’s marathoning Archer and he needs more, as soon as possible.

  


**

  


Athos likes sitting in the cab of the van, so high up. His feet don’t quite touch the floor which Porthos finds completely adorable. Athos sits in the middle, close to Porthos, and Porthos’s arms, tan from their holiday in Spain to visit Aramis’s family, are strong and thick and he looks the part of a trucker. Especially with the white t-shirt and spare tyre around his waist. Athos likes Porthos’s shoulders, too, and the way Porthos moves in the seat, muscles straining and twisting to see around him, to get the gears changing, the break on.

  


“What are you thinking of?” Porthos says.

  


“Something terribly sexy,” Athos says. Porthos hums, interested. “You. All this body, all this sweating and carrying and using of muscles. I’m just thinking about it all.”

  


“Yeah? For what?”

  


“I hadn’t got much further,” Athos says. “I dunno. What’re you in the mood for? Awfully dangerous roadhead? I could think of that. Those shorts hide nothing, I’d notice the moment you got aroused, and I wouldn’t argue.”

  


“Nah, something I can actually do.”

  


“I bet I could give you a blowjob while you drove,” Athos says, examining Porthos’s crotch, thinking about angles.

  


“Yeah, well, crashing isn’t a good idea. And Aramis would be jealous.”

  


“What if you park up?”

  


“Jesus, Ath! Seriously?”

  


Athos grins. He hadn’t been very serious, but Porthos’s body is definitely interested. Athos rests a hand on Porthos’s shoulder and soothes him back, though, deciding that Porthos parading into the hire office with an erection poking out of his tiny shorts might be frowned on. It’s too hot to actually pull over and give him a blowjob, the AC isn’t working in the cab. Athos can feel sweat prickling on his neck, and his cheeks, into his beard. He flops back against the seat.

  


“I’m shaving when I get home. Everywhere. Every single bit of hair,” Athos says.

  


“Legs? Armpits? Bollocks?”

  


“My head and my beard,” Athos says, waving a languid arm to indicate.

  


They return the van and get Porthos’s car without either shaving, dying of heat, or having sex. They exchange the keys for the deposit, and Athos takes Porthos’s arm, the hard muscle under his hand as Porthos pushes away from the counter very pleasing. He feels like a Southern belle.  Athos drives home,  to allow Porthos to sprawl invitingly against the window, legs loose and wide, head back. Athos tries not to be too distracted. Walking into their own home with an obvious erection won’t be a problem, though, so he doesn’t fight his desire for Porthos too hard. When they do step into the hall (Athos’s erection is beginning to get insistant but his trackies mostly hide the state of him) there’s a crash, a bellow of pain, another crash.

  


“We left Aramis unsupervised,” Porthos says, hurrying toward the chaos, kicking off his strappy sandals.

  


Aramis is in the kitchen, the contents of two boxes spread over the floor, a table in pieces, Aramis sat in the middle of it all, looking around in dismay. Porthos laughs, and goes to scoop him up and out of the mess, carrying him like a baby.

  


“I’m fine,” Aramis assures.

  


“We’ll check,” Porthos says, setting Aramis to stand next to Athos and quickly de-pantsing him.

  


It doesn’t take much, Aramis is wearing boxers, flipflops, and a vest. He yelps in dismay, but then lets Porthos examine him, big hand moving in a very-much-not-medically-approved way. Athos watches the hand, shifting. Porthos tugs Athos, and shows him a purple bruise coming up on Araims’s thigh, bum, and side.

  


“Oh, wow,” Athos says, kneeling. “Hold still, babe. What’d you do?”

  


“Fell off a fucking table,” Aramis says.

  


Athos examines the bruise, checking bones, but it’s just a big bruise. Aramis is moving fine, and there’s not enough pain for anything to be broken.

  


“How did you end up standing on a table with two boxes?” Athos asks.

  


**

  


Porthos puts the swing seat together and then lies in it, unable to find the energy to go help with the rest of the unpacking. Aramis comes out and lies on top of him after two hours, and they leave Athos to finish up. Which is possibly not fair. But Aramis is bruised, and Porthos is sure he did most of the moving stuff around bit of things. Their garden is long, stretching away around a corner, with a little tumbly building Athos calls a shed. Porthos is sure it’s a summer house really. He’s going to make it into one, whether it is now or not, anyway. There’s a little fish pond, just off the terrace. The grass needs cutting and the flower beds are a bit wild, but Porthos loves that about it. Aramis will faf about a bit growing things in his slap-dash, lacsadaisical manner. Athos will smoke out here in the evenings. Porthos likes having a garden.

  


“Do you two want dinner?” Athos asks, coming out and sitting on top of them both.

  


“Ow! Fuck, Athos!” Aramis says.

 

“Oops. Sorry,” Athos says, rolling off Aramis and squashing down the side, between Aramis and the back, elbowing Porthos. “Dinner?”

 

“Ice cream,” Porthos says. “For dinner. And then bed. For sleep.”

 

They don't have ice cream. Aramis makes them beans on toast. Athos is still up for something other than sleep, but Porthos is tired and Aramis's bum hurts where he bruised it. Much to everyone except Aramis's amusement. Porthos puts a propitiatory hand over the bruise, snuggles down into the mattress (the bed's still in pieces) and falls asleep. He vaguely wakes to Aramis and Athos rolling and rocking about, but they notice and quiet him back under before carrying on their gymnastics. Porthos wakes about two am, which is his own fault for going to sleep so early. He dozes for a while, strokes Aramis's hair, watching Athos drool. Then he gets bored.

 

**

 

Aramis wakes at four to soft singing. He feels around the bed and finds Athos, curled up away from them as he likes, but no Porthos, trying to smother Aramis in sleep-snuggles. Aramis gets out of bed and lurches to the door, keeping his eyes closed. He forgets there's a step and nearly goes sprawling, but catches himself. He forgets that they're right by the stairs down, and nearly falls again. By the time he reaches Athos's office, he's a bit wobbly and trembly, after all his close calls. He stops, gaping. Porthos is in his pyjama shorts, nothing else, and is painting the office.

 

“What in the name of my God are you doing?” Aramis hisses.

 

“Painting,” Porthos says, turning. He has yellow paint in his hair. “Couldn't sleep.”

 

“You are seriously an odd person, Porthos. Seriously odd,” Aramis says.

 

“Don't lean! Doorframe's wet,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis jerks away, and falls over, sitting heavily in the hall. He doesn't get covered in paint, but he does fall on his bruise. Porthos doesn't notice, too busy rolling great swatches of yellow. He goes back to singing, voice soft and growling. Tom Waits, I Hope I Don't Fall in Love with You. Aramis stays sitting, pulling his knees up to rest his head on and watch. Porthos wriggles along to his crooning, swaying along. Aramis recognises the song because Athos absolutely adores Tom Waits and is always hurrying about looking for them to make them listen to just this one more.

 

“What?”

 

Aramis looks up, and Athos is standing in the hallway, naked, blurry-eyed, glaring. Aramis gives him a wave and points at Porthos. Porthos rolls paint enthusiastically over the last bit of wrong coloured wall, and turns, yellow paint on his arms and chest and in his hair, grinning. He's a very beautiful person. His hair's got longer recently, and falls in great looping curls around him. Well, some fall, some spring. He's also got the most beautiful smile in the world. Except maybe Athos's rare ones.

 

“I'm painting,” Porthos says, unnecessarily and no longer truthfully now that he's finished.

 

“So I see,” Athos says, stepping over Aramis into the room. “It's very… yellow.”

 

“Isn't it?” Porthos says, pleased.

 

“Don't touch me, you're very yellow too,” Athos says, turning in a circle, eyes narrowed at the warm walls. Then his lips twitch.

 

“I knew you'd like it,” Porthos says, turning away to put the roller down. “I'm going to pack this up and go shower. Is it time to get up, finally?”

 

“No, it's four in the fucking morning,” Athos says.

 

“Want to shower with me at four in the fucking morning?” Porthos asks, grabbing Athos's hips.

 

His hands leave yellow splotches of paint. Aramis buries his face in his knees and laughs and laughs and laughs. Porthos makes a happy noise and scoops Aramis up. They all end up in the shower, Aramis still in pyjamas and trying to escape Porthos's arms. He has to go back to bed naked, having no more pyjamas unpacked or findable. He's grumpy about it, until Porthos gives him a t-shirt. It's big and warm and smells like Porthos and Aramis snuggles into it, Porthos holding onto him like he's a teddy bear, Athos curled up on his side.

 

**

It's nice to have a big kitchen, and nice to be up before everyone to have some quiet, and nice to have the early sun streaming in the windows even with the drizzling rain out there. What isn't so nice is the packed boxes and broken table and tea things in the sink. Athos is still half asleep. He doesn't want to set the kitchen to rights just to get his morning coffee. He considers his options, then goes to wake Porthos to get him to do it.

 

Porthos is sprawled on top of Aramis, only a bit of Aramis's head and face sticking out over an arm, one of Aramis's arms escaping. Porthos is snoring, and drooling on Aramis, and looks like a giant spread out, great muscles lax in sleep, his huge shoulders wide wide across the pale sheets, back rising and falling with his breaths, the slouch of fat around his stomach spilling. Athos nudges the duvet aside to admire Porthos's bum, the swell and round of it, then gives him an experimental poke. Porthos is a heavy sleeper but usually wakes easily. Athos pokes again, scribbling his fingers over Porthos's back up to his neck.

 

“Grumble,” Porthos says, quite distinctly.

 

Athos laughs, lowering himself to sit on the mattress, bending to press kisses over Porthos's shoulders, caressing his skin, impossibly fond all of a sudden. He doesn't care about the kitchen, or coffee, or anything. He's quite content to feel over the familiar body, press his lips up into Porthos's hair to find an ear, a cheek, press himself close.

 

“Morning,” he whispers, running a hand over Porthos's biceps.

 

“Is Aramis squashed?” Porthos asks.

 

“He's fine,” Athos says, checking that Aramis is still breathing and not smothered. He's fast asleep, completely undisturbed by either their talking or his heavy blanket of Porthos.

 

“What are you after?” Porthos asks.

 

Athos just hums, lips finding skin again, nuzzling in. Porthos's body pitches, twists, and heaves itself up and around, making Athos sit up. Porthos has pillow creases on his cheek, and one eye is more open that the other, and his hair has come out of its curls and is frizzed and kinked on one side. Porthos rubs his hands over it and the curls reform like magic.

 

“Coffee,” Athos says. “I wanted coffee. The table's broken and the kitchen's a mess.”

 

“Right,” Porthos says. “Why am I doing this for you?”

 

“Because you love me,” Athos says, getting into bed.

 

Porthos gets up and shambles out. Athos lies on his back, arms out, and enjoys the feel of freshish sheets, the warmth of Porthos's body, the sound of Aramis close and sleeping. He turns to examine Aramis. Porthos's big t-shirt is twisted and rucked around him, his back bare, his naked thighs half-covered by the duvet, his hair loose and spread in a mess around him. Athos covers him properly with the duvet and sits up to watch him sleep, to observe the part of his lips, the occasional flicker of his eyes beneath their lids, the beauty of his cheek and nose. Porthos brings two mugs of coffee and a tray of toast and fruit, and sits on the bed next to Athos. They sit against the wall and eat in companionable quiet.

 

“Table's fine. He didn't put it together properly,” Porthos says, when he's done eating.

 

“Good,” Athos says.

 

“I found the coffee and the pot, but didn't bother with the rest of the boxes,” Porthos says.

 

“Aramis and I will finish unpacking today, if you put the bed together,” Athos says.

 

“Done,” Porthos says.

 

**

Once the bed's put together, Porthos sees little point in not testing it. He curls up in the middle and dozes, listening to Athos and Aramis moving around the rest of the house. It's strange. They all lived in fairly small flats, previously. Or tiny, in Porthos's case. He'd liked his little nook in the attic, with it's ensuit and little kitchenette. Here though, the house has two floors and a garden and lots of extra space. The rooms take shape beneath the footsteps of the others, their voices suggesting size and shape. Like a live architect's plan it lazily draws itself in Porthos's sleepy mind. All their space. He liked the small flats, where they were always close to him.

 

“We're going out for lunch,” Aramis says, waking him from a deeper doze. “Are you alright?”

 

“Mm?” Porthos asks, sitting up and stretching.

 

Aramis comes over and sits on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little and nodding his approval then wrapping a hand around the back of Porthos's neck, reeling him in for a kiss. He's warm, a little sweaty.

 

“Are you okay? Waking up in the middle of the night, sleeping in the middle of the day,” Aramis says.

 

“Maybe the two are connected,” Porthos says, grinning. “Or maybe _someone_ woke me up at fucking awful in the morning because he couldn't be arsed to put the kitchen to rights himself.”

 

“Who was that terrible person?” Athos asks, coming in and rooting through the boxes of clothes that haven't been unpacked. “Do either of you know where I put my socks? I have no socks.”

 

“It's warm, wear flip flops,” Porthos says, yawning.

 

“It's raining sweets,” Aramis says, smiling fondly at him.

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, surprised. He can hear it, now, and looks at the window. It is raining, fit to bust. “Right. Socks are in one of my boxes Athos, you wanted to have them to hand and thought my stuff would get unpacked first, dunno why. I think they're in my old army duffle.”

 

Athos finds the duffle bag and pulls things out until he finds a nest of socks. He makes a pleased little noise and comes to sit on the bed to pull socks on. He brings a pair for Porthos, too, and Aramis gets him a jumper.

 

“I'm coming to lunch, then,” Porthos says, getting the clothes on. “No choice, eh?”

 

“None at all,” Aramis says. “I'm going to church afterwards, if you want to come with you can't wear those tatty jeans.”

 

Porthos looks down at his jeans, decides they are perfectly respectable tatty jeans, and that Aramis will let him come to church even with them. He doesn't bother changing. He isn't sure he wants to go to church, but he isn't sure he doesn't want to go, either. He isn't religious, didn't grow up with it and hasn't converted himself to it, but Aramis goes regularly and is religious, and Athos isn't devout as such but he does go to shul and observes holidays and fasts and kosher. God is part of their lives, and Porthos likes that. Church is a peaceful way to spend time, and peaceful is good.

 

**

 

The house is quiet, settling. Their things are mostly unpacked and set to rights, their furniture built and in place. The three of them are sat in the livingroom, reading or watching TV or playing on their phone respectively. There's something warm and joyful about the shared space, belonging to all of them. Home.

 


End file.
